


You Give Me Fever

by moonygirl76



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Boys In Love, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Character, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, cornflower blue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonygirl76/pseuds/moonygirl76
Summary: Jaskier falls ill on their way to Oxenfurt. Geralt struggles, but is determined to take care of him as best he can.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 491





	You Give Me Fever

**Author's Note:**

> I hope there is room in here for yet another sickfic. I love my soft boys being soft. 
> 
> Drop a kudos and a comment to warm a writer's heart. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

YOU GIVE ME FEVER

It starts, as these things do, with merely a tickle and a sniffle. Not even a real cough, nay, more of a gentle clearing of the throat here and there, as they travel.

Jaskier, Geralt has noticed, falls ill surprisingly seldom for a human. Maybe the fresh air did him a service, boosting his general constitution, or the vigorous singing kept his lungs clear and strong. 

The second day, however, the tickle requires more of a nagging effort to clear, and Jaskier’s voice becomes strained and affected. After they’ve made camp, Geralt boils a kettle full of water and brews a bold chamomile infused tea, with ginger blossom to sweeten, as Jaskier gently pouts, having self-imposed a vocal rest to save his voice for when they reach Oxenfurt. 

The third day, they stop often. Geralt notices that Jaskier vacillates between too warm and too cool, his delicately embroidered coat coming on and then off in swift and frequent intervals. The coughing is persistent, harsh and loud, leaving Jaskier winded and, for some reason, apologizing to Geralt. 

As they bed down for the night, Geralt can hear a fine whistle as Jaskier exhales, but it seems to mostly clear when he gives a strong cough. Even in the warm glow of the firelight Jaskier’s pallor is waxy. Jaskier again, alternates temperature all during the night. Pulling Geralt close and burrowing in, then soon rolling away to the far side of his bedroll and stripping off layers. 

In the morning, Geralt listens as Jaskier washes at the stream they are following. His cough is wet, like the brook. The wheeze, with fine crackles, is not lessoning with any amount of effort. When it’s time to set out, Geralt pulls Jaskier up onto Roach and, it’s a testament to how ill Jaskier has become, that hears no complaint from either of them. 

Geralt wrestles silently between pushing Jaskier to travel on, hastening their arrival to town and to a healer, and breaking from travel, as he knows that Jaskier needs rest.

They travel on, as night approaches. Jaskier dozes against Geralt’s chest, listing at times so that Geralt needs to keep a firm arm about his waist to keep him from falling completely from Roach. 

The air is cool as the sun retreats, but an unnatural heat radiates relentlessly through Jaskier’s clothing. 

A fever. 

Jaskier doesn’t stir more than a flutter of his long lashes as Geralt eases him from Roach’s back to make camp. Geralt finds a soft bit of grass to lay him on, and bunches his own cloak up for Jaskier to use as a pillow while Geralt checks the area for safety and makes a fire. 

Once settled in, Geralt tries to wake Jaskier to eat, but he does not wake fully. He merely flashes those cornflower blue eyes, glassed over with fever, before falling back under to a heavy slumber in Geralt’s arms. 

Easing Jaskier back down on their shared bedrolls, Geralt finishes his own meal of dried meats and a handful of the wild huckleberries that Jaskier had picked for them, the week previous. 

When he lies down behind Jaskier, listening to the ever-present sounds of the forest, he feels the unquiet of Jaskier’s breathing on his chest as he leans against Jaskier’s back. He reaches around and places a hand to Jaskier’s cheek which still burns unnaturally warm. He eases off Jaskier’s fine coat, folding it carefully, and mindful not to leave it where it will be soiled by the earth. He unbuttons Jaskier’s shirt next, and then unlaces his trousers, concerned by Jaskier’s lack of any response to the treatment. 

Geralt then pulls Jaskier, now in only his small clothes, back so he is farther from the campfire. 

Again, Geralt wrestles with the thought of rushing ahead to the town to find Jaskier some cure as presently as possibly, and allowing him respite from further travel. Surely a couple days sleep would do wonders for fighting off the illness. 

Geralt allows himself only snippets of sleep in the course of the night. Waking when he hears Jaskier coughing, and sitting him up, rousing him enough to draw some water from the canteen, which he takes with eager swallows before falling again into a heavy, limp-bodied slumber.

In the morn, Geralt, after securing the area, makes his way back down to the stream and soaks strips of cloth to place on Jaskier’s neck and face as he’s seen healers do in the past. 

However, when he returns to camp, he finds Jaskier huddled in on himself, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. He reaches for Geralt when he’s close enough, wrestling him down on to the bed roll with a surprising strength. A wild, unfocused look in his eyes. His skin is still hot to the touch, but he balks violently when Geralt tries to place the cool compress to his forehead. 

Instead he burrows in, face first into Geralt’s wide chest, arms tucking in under Geralt’s. And while he knows it will only encourage the fever, he feels reluctant to do anything else but pull the furs over them both and kiss Jaskier’s hair whispering to him until the shaking recedes. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Geralt says over and over. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises.

By midmorning, Jaskier has rolled away again, starfishing on his own bedroll, shying away from Geralt’s touch. 

The fever needs to break. He contemplates carrying Jaskier down to the stream and immersing him bodily in the cold water. But he fears the shock of it to Jaskier’s human body might be too much, and cause more harm than good. 

Geralt paces the campsite, watching the fragile human sleep. He feels the precipice of the moment, the balance of Jaskier’s very life in his hands. He cannot remember a time when he felt so unsure. So helpless. 

His state of mind is all that can explain how the other human is able to make his way into their vicinity of the woods, nay, right into the edge of the camp before Geralt senses him. 

The human calls out a greeting and Geralt swiftly draws his sword. He steps solidly between the stranger and Jaskier’s sleeping form, and rapidly tries to assess the situation. 

The man, not much out of boyhood to be sure, is lank and his face is unlined with injury or age or troubles. 

His eyes are wide as he holds his hands out in surrender, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be surrendering any time soon. 

“Sorry to disturb,” he intones, his voice also unmarred by age or ale. It’s almost musically bright. “Just passing through, nothing to fear from little old me,” he says, and even has the audacity to smile in the face of a territorial Witcher with a silver sword capable of halving him at any moment.

“The names Bastian Cumberbalt,” he prattles on, possibly from nerves. “I pose no threat, but fair warning that there’s a band of Nifgaardian soldier’s clearing the forest, an hour or so behind me.” 

Well. That tips things toward pressing on to Oxenfurt, if Jaskier is even fit for travel. Geralt grunts in acknowledgement of the information, but doesn’t lower his sword. 

Behind him, Jaskier lets out a long string of struggling wet coughs. Bastian tips his head to peer around Geralt at Jaskier, who Geralt remembers is still only in his small clothes. He raises his sword higher and growls until the stranger’s attention is back on him. 

“Again, not meaning any harm,” Bastian says, eyes back on Geralt. “But your friend is ill?”

Geralt again doesn’t answer, just let’s out a “hmm” in acknowledgement. 

“I’m no healer. I’m studying music and theater in Oxenfurt. However, my mother is a healer, so I’ve learnt a trick or two. I could check him if you’d like. I also have some Sudarshan leaves and holy basil in my pack that are good for breaking fever. I was bringing them back for my mother, but I can spare some.”

“At what cost?” Geralt asks, mostly stalling as he considers trusting Jaskier to this stranger in his weakened, vulnerable state. Cost isn’t really an issue, he’d give his own eye teeth to ensure Jaskier’s health and well-being.

“Safe passage? The soldier’s aren’t the sort I’d like stumbling upon me when I’m alone, and neither are the bandits that they are searching for. Just from here to Oxenfurt, though I’d be happy to make introductions for you, with my mother, once we arrive.”

He waits for Geralt to sheath his sword completely and nod his consent before slowly making his way to Jaskier. Geralt hovers uselessly an arms-length away. 

Bastian kneels down next to Jaskier’s prone form, smooths his dark hair off his own face, rolls up his bright-colored sleeves before glancing up at Geralt one more time for him to nod his consent. 

“What’s his name?” he asks, just before touching him. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it comes out little more than a choked whisper. 

Bastian’s hands drop. “Jaskier? The famous bard?” he asks, his voice going very high at the last. 

Geralt nods. 

“Jaskier is highly revered in Oxenfurt. His tone! His chord progressions! His story telling talents--” he cuts himself off, with a blink. “Well. Obviously, that would make you Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher. So, you well know how talented he is. I don’t need to tell you.” He leans close to Jaskier again, and Geralt tries not to impulsively throw him off as he sets his head to Jaskier’s chest. He listens to the in-out of Jaskier’s breathing, before moving the placement of his ear and repeating the same. 

“Hello, Jaskier. I am Bastian Cumberbalt.” He gives Jaskier a gentle shake, then another until those bleary cornflower blue eyes make their appearance. “Oh, hello. I’m here with Geralt.” Geralt leans forward to enter Jaskier’s field of vision, but Jaskier has already closed his lids again. “That’s alright, Jaskier. You rest while we have a look-see,” Bastian continues, unperturbed. 

He places a hand to Jaskier’s forehead, then feels his neck and then grasps his chin, opening Jaskier’s mouth and peers inside before settling back on his haunches. “You’ve done a fine job of hydrating him, Geralt. He’d be much more poorly had you not been giving him water.”

Geralt grunts in response. He’s done little else.

“I’m going to grind up those Sudarshan leaves. Would you be so kind as to fill the canteen at the stream? Also, you could freshen up these cloths. It was a good idea to make compresses.”

Geralt growls without reaching for the cloths. There’s no way he’s leaving Jaskier.

He expects Bastian to give him a lecture about trust. Or, at the very least, to remind Geralt that he is trying to help Jaskier. Most people would. Bastian does neither of these. After a long look at Geralt, he retrieves a mortar and pestle from his bag, along with some dried leaves folded in a dark cloth, and hands them to Geralt. “Rather, I’ll fetch water, and you grind. You seem to have the arms for it.”

When Bastian returns from the stream, they are able to rouse Jaskier enough to swallow the concoction of herbs in water, though he sputters a bit, which triggers a long bought of coughing. 

Geralt carefully dresses Jaskier, a task he does not share with Bastian. After, Bastian is surprisingly helpful, assisting Geralt to break camp quickly, in order to stay ahead of the soldiers and make haste to Oxenfurt. 

Jaskier seems semi alert, but still not tracking, as Geralt lifts him aloft onto Roach. Geralt climbs up behind him before handing Jaskier the canteen of water. Jaskier drinks greedily before handing it back. Once Roach sets off, Jaskier seems to lose steam and lays his head back on Geralt’s shoulder and, again, finds a listless sleep. 

About an hour into their ride, Bastian, walking steadily beside Roach on the trail, pulls out what looks like a fife, or other sort of small flute made of wood, and begins playing softly as he walks. 

Geralt can soon smell, as well as feel the sweat from Jaskier, signaling the break of his fever. 

The music, as well as the regulation of his temperature seems to perk Jaskier up. He lifts his head, stretching his neck side to side, placing a hand on Geralt’s sure arm that anchors him steady in front of him on Roach. 

Jaskier’s eyes find Bastian and he watches him for a time before setting his head back on Geralt’s shoulder, turning his mouth toward Geralt’s ear. 

“You see him, correct?” His voice croaks from sickness and lack of use. 

“Yes.”

“I’m not hallucinating? Or having an out-of-body experience as Death approaches to take me?” Jaskier asks.

“No. That’s Bastian.”

“Ah. You’ve replaced me already, have you?” Jaskier asks.

“It pays to be prepared,” Geralt replies.

There’s a beat and then, Jaskier says, “You jest! Now I know this is all a hallucination.”

They make steady progress, encountering neither soldiers or bandits, or monsters for that matter. 

The town of Oxenfurt is a bustling one. Vibrant both visually in bright colors and teeming with young and exuberant life. Geralt can see how Jaskier is a product of this environment. 

They reach Bastian’s home before nightfall. 

Bastian introduces them formally, and if Madame Cumberbalt, or Mary as she instructs them to call her, is familiar with them she doesn’t mention it. She directs Geralt to carry Jaskier to a back bedroom. Jaskier is awake, but weak as a pup and clings to Geralt with a fine tremor in his arms. 

Mary instructs Geralt to set Jaskier on the bed and then directs him to take his swords outside. Geralt stiffens at the instruction. Jaskier lets out a nervous laugh. 

“We have trust issues, Madame,” Jaskier says, in an apologetic tone.

“I can see that. Your friend can return and hold your hand and glare daggers at me if he wishes, but I won’t have swords in here. It’s a place of healing. My place, my rules gentlemen,” Mary says.

She stands back and waits. 

Geralt pulls out his silver swords, one by one, and knives, and several other tools of the trade and drops them all on the other side of the threshold in a heap without leaving the room. 

“Dandy,” Mary says, with a placid smile. 

She gives Jaskier an examination, poking and prodding as Bastian had done, and enquires to Jaskier about his symptoms. Most of the questions he looks to Geralt to answer, and he does in a curt yet matter of fact tone. 

Mary does not seem to take offense to Geralt’s lack of warmth, and indeed he means no harm, she seems to actually appreciate his clinical approach as it seems to match her own.

Mary then goes about outlining cost and treatment plan and then calls to Bastian to drag in a tub. The tub is then filled with water and sprinkled with some sort of herbal remedy. Geralt is instructed to deposit Jaskier in the tub while the water is tepid and then add the hot, steamy bucket of water while Jaskier holds a damp towel over his head like a tent. He should then deeply breath in the steam until again the water is tepid, and then Geralt is allowed to help him wash. 

Geralt nods. Jaskier yells out a “thank you” and Geralt, too, thinks to say it, belatedly, just as the bedroom door is closing. 

Geralt takes great care in following the Healer’s instructions. 

Even once Jaskier is comfortably clean, dressed in a borrowed nightshirt left inside the door by Bastian, and tucked in to bed, Geralt can only stand and listen to Jaskier breathe, for some time. Waiting, until satisfied that the wetness has greatly receded from his lungs and is not presently returning. 

It is only then that Geralt can take off his armor, piece by piece, and then his clothes, and step into the cooled bath for a perfunctory rinse of the road dust from his body and hair. 

It is only then that he can settle in next to Jaskier on the bed and pull him close and feel for himself that the fever is still kept at bay. 

It is only then, that he can rest. 

Several days pass, with steady improvement. 

When morning dawns on the tenth day, Geralt listens to Jaskier breathe with his ear tight to Jaskier’s back. His breathing has eased. Wetness is gone. He hadn’t heard nary a cough throughout the night. 

Just as Jaskier stirs, turning in his arms, Geralt himself feels a tickle in his throat. He clears it hastily, with a growl and a hack. He knows he has a something in one of Roach’s saddle bags that will knock off any impending sickness. Much too strong for human consumption, of course. But even as he thinks of leaving Jaskier’s side, he sees that Jaskier’s eyes are open. 

Cornflower blue examine him shrewdly, with a warm smile gracing his sweet lips. He wraps an arm around Geralt’s broad shoulders and leans close to kiss Geralt’s hair.

Jaskier whispers, “I’ll take care of you.”


End file.
